Friday, July 31, 2009

Dinner last night at the neighbor's --we touched on all the grim topics:serial murderers, corporal punishment, rape,economic gloom, stomach-pumping, the state ofhealth care (it's deteriorating over here also),government corruption. I kept trying to lightenthe mood, but it kept returning to the oppressiveclouds of doom.

But the food! Fantastic! A vegan as well as a meatlasagna made with bechemel, a salad with "leaves"and tomatoes grown just out the door, and potatoes --O! Be! Still! My! Taste-buds! Tiny waxy whitepotatoes, again from just out in the garden, so sweet when buttered, with a sprinkle of sea salt.They were my undoing. They were all I needed.I wanted to close myself off for a minute or twofrom my friends and just Be One With The Potato.It was truly one of those unforgettable food moments.

(Have you had moments like this? I'm not talkingsumptuous restaurant experiences but times whena simple, unexpected bite of something knocks youoff your feet.

Once, after a simple (but painful) procedure at the doctor's office, I stopped off at a friend'shouse. It was past lunchtime, and I was famished. This friend quickly made up a sandwich for me, but whatmade it extraordinary was the jam: homemade pear.It was simmered gold on bread with peanut butterAND dairy butter. I can taste it now as I write....)

Friends are coming in tomorrow from Dublinfor the August Bank Holiday. The party continues....

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

I woke up early this morning -- 5:30 --past the worst of this Hibernian plague,and right away put on my sweatshirt andwalked out into the early glow. No rain, and the wind had eased to a mere hum.Pat's sheep across the cove already werehard at their work of consuming grass, headsbent to the earth. Gulls lofted in the thermals.Frogsong -- or crickets? I couldn't tell.I'd not had coffee yet, nor my daily rationof oats, or strawberries. And I hadn'treally properly awakened, having strodestraight from the bed to the door. I recommend this: proceed straightfrom a dream to a completely differentlandscape, on your feet. Not sleep-walking,but then not awake-walking either.A kind of blue limbo, with gauzy cloud-ragsat the edges.

(Except in this case, in the dream I wasan adult in a children's school-play,and it was showtime and I'd not memorizedmy six lines. Neither had I pulled togethera costume. So I solved this problem by just not showing up for the event.Sometimes avoidance is very successful.)

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

It's hard to imagine 103 degrees in Seattlewhile out here in the west of Irelandthe wind howls and shrieks and rattleseverything not nailed completely downon the house, and then the rain, the rain....I have to remember that if we drive the fouror so miles into town, the weather will most likelybe comparatively calm, Westport being nestledin a little bowl, facing away from the Atlanticfrom whence cometh all misery. Ahem.But today I just couldn't bring myselfto get in the car and be jostled on bumpyroads, look for a parking spot and dodge fellowtourists on the sidewalks of town. So insteadI sent Paul to get me more cough syrup(whose name sounds like vomit in theonomatopoeic sense) and to rustle upsome sudafed or some other such decongestantfor my besieged upper respiratory system.

Meanwhile, I've brewed myself a mug of teainfused with fresh orange peel and sliced ginger,and I'll sit here and listen to the gale bellowjust on the other side of the glass.

A question: how is it that all these feather-weightedbirds -- sparrows, green finches, Irish robins -- can stand,stand in this wind and nibble away at the seedwe've scattered, and not get blasted to smithereens?

---

I marvel at the ability to video-chat with my sonson Skype. It's far from perfect, but it's damn great!Yesterday Nelson's face kept reshaping itselflike something from a horror movie. And then he wentall Impressionist on me, all paint-daubedand wavery, and his voice descended underwaterfor a moment, then he froze in a weird twisted grinand then the connection was lost. Imagine that --a poor connection -- and for this we pay (not a thing.)We did, however, manage to conduct a fair amountof business during our spotty, wiggly, burbly call.Still hashing out the details with the insurance co.re: that nasty break-in. But it's moving forward.It always does, doesn't it?

Monday, July 27, 2009

I'm always in search of a holy well (or two),
and at the tourist office in Dingle
I asked the young woman behind the counter
if there were any to be found on the peninsula.

She said, "Oh, well, yes, there are many, you know.
But they're hard to find."

She highlighted in orange the location of a few
on our map, but warned that they wouldn't be
easy to ferret out. Usually, I've found, wells
are marked with a sign of some sort: no problem!
So we ventured out into the heavy wind
and threat of rain, engaging in my favorite
Irish activity: backroading.
(Or, as Paul puts it: getting lost.)

Map in hand, we turned off the main road
onto a narrow road, and then onto an even
more narrow road rimmed by fuschias eight feet tall
and at the height of bloom, and crocosmia bending
and leaning over our "path."

Nettles and bracken ferns flourishing so lushly
and so tightly packed together that it was impossible
to peer past the roadside into their dark undergrowth.

Periodically a sparkle of sun between charcoal clouds,
and then lashings of rain and then sun again,
in all of maybe two minutes.
And warm -- short-sleeved warmth.

It's easy to imagine how a culture of fairies
and "little people" sprang up in this nearly-tropical
landscape. There seems to exist a dormant magic here,
something hovering just beyond the unfolding
of each fiddle-head fern. A trilling tune, perhaps,
or a jig. I keep my eyes and ears open.

So. Back to the well-search.
We kept arriving at the gravel-end
of someone's driveway, cliffside, Dingle Bay
crashing below us, and no holy well,
not even a sign for a holy well.
Alas!

In the end we settled on the stunning ruin
of Minard Castle -- not what we set out for
but glorious, anyway, in its disrepair!
One can only imagine what tales and secrets
its mossy walls guard....

Sunday, July 26, 2009

We drove down to the Dingle Peninsula Friday, a slogbehind tractor after tractor, horses pulling racing gigs,bicyclers, a massive traffic jam in Limerick due toa road closure due to a major accident.....what should'vetaken three and a half hours took most of the day,but what a pleasure it was once we left Traleeand began climbing up the Conor Pass....an extremelynarrow road on the edge of a precarious cliff, with reelingviews unobstructed by trees, and waterfalls. Lucky for uswe were on the inside track, but I was certain severaltimes that we were going to scrape the side mirroron the rock face. No! Didn't happen. (Paul is a verycareful driver.)

And then down, quickly, to Dingle-Town, on a smallfishing bay. Charming, brightly-colored storefronts,kind of an old hippie town with shops selling sarongsand crystals and incense burners.

A great place to wander, a fantastic placefor eating. Fish and seafood starred on nearlyevery menu. The first night I had a whole grilledsea bass which positively made me swoon.Dinner #2 was a fish pie made with a roux and courtbouillon, topped with mashed potatoes. Divine.We've been on a big fish kick lately, which suits mejust fine. And we're obviously in the right place!

Friday, July 24, 2009

The town of Knock is the site of the Apparition of 1879,when it was reported that the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph,and St. John the Evangelist appeared to fifteen people.Although I haven't been a practicing Catholic for allof my adult life, I am nonetheless fascinated byCatholica....

...especially this giant rosary:

I should really be honest here:my favorite thing about Knock is the shops:one after another literally overflowingwith knick-knocks, bric-a-brac andpaddy-whackery: ALL THINGS CATHOLIC....

But what really made an impression on me werethese "toys" -- and this is just in one shop....

Thursday, July 23, 2009

We encountered the owner of this long and lovely patchof vegetables recently on an after-dinner walk.

I've admired his lush rows of potatoes, lettuces and onionssince my first visit to Carrowholly, four years ago,and here he was, finally. We chatted for a bit andhe sent us away with two massive heads of lettuceand a bunch of sweet onions.

You might recall my post a few weeks agoof three scarecrows: same garden.The fruits (er, vegetables) of his toils are for saleat the Thursday market in town. We bought a bagof "mucky" potatoes last week -- still covered in dirt.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

An unusually high tide tonight -- while awaitingdinner prepared by our houseguest Mr. Beast,Paul and I took off on a jaunt around the coveto see firsthand the high waters,and what really captured our attentionwere the underwater flowers:

And this exotic jelly fish:

The sun was shining -- briefly -- and all the colorswere at their most intense.

Upon our return, I saw that my sheetshad become tangled in the gorse --

And about 30 minutes later, the rains beganonce again, and I ran out in the middle of dinnerto untangle the sheets from the line, only for the windto tangle them about me during the unpinning:An Apparition In White.

(And now they are comfortably tumblingin the luxury of our electric dryer.)

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

View from the car at The Deserted Village, Achill Island.
Crazy, torrential, inescapable rain.
(Waiting for friends as the car steamed up.
Scroll down slowly. And remember,
it really is summer in Ireland.)

"What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark. . . . "—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse"Like other poets, I am often asked if I have a spiritual practice. Yes, writing is my spiritual practice."— Alicia Ostriker

"The trick, Gloria thought as she experienced near-whiplash at the revelation, was to keep the level of believing in magic constant."—Marylinn Kelly

"Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me."—Sigmund Freud

"...and following the wrong god home we may miss our star."—William Stafford

"I am in love with the world.""—Maurice Sendak

“I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.” —Rainier Maria Rilke"Writing means revealing oneself to excess."--Franz Kafka"There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails. " --Raymond Carver"Someone I loved once gave mea box full of darkness.It took me years to understandthat this, too, was a gift. "--Mary Oliver"In the middle of the journey of our lifeI found myself in a dark wood,For I had lost the right path.And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars." --Dante Alighieri